


The Cottage, His Wardrobe

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: The Cottage, the Husbands [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Clothing, Cohabitation, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Romance, Showing Off
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 16:11:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: Self-indulgent Fluff Part Three: In which Crowley is a being who is inherently a show off, and what he wants to show off to their new village by the sea is this beautiful, sweet, bastard of an angel who is in love with him (he's in love too, obviously, but that's less impressive).  Sadly, this angel is a hermit who wears the same outfit every damn day.





	The Cottage, His Wardrobe

In his heart of hearts, Crowley was a performer.

If there had been theater in Hell that wasn’t terrible (only the worst amateur productions of _Death of a Salesman_ , costuming provided by 1970's rubbish bins, are allowed in the Depths), he could have been a star. Human theater, meanwhile, required directors and stage managers, who felt it perfectly within their rights to tell the actors what to do, and Crowley had a small issue with authority which had caused him trouble in the past. He thought it best to avoid the stage. 

Without this creative outlet, Crowley simply made a dramatic character of himself. So what if he was a snake and his walk was a little odd? Fine, he’d own it, dramatize it, and saunter better than any other being on planet Earth. His corporation was thin as a rail? Then he’d dress it in black, keep up with the times, push the sartorial envelope. Humans started getting testy about other people with slitted pupils? He essentially invented horribly overpriced, stylish sunglasses. Anthony J Crowley was not some boring, run of the mill pretend-human. He was an _experience_.

And he liked, on occasion, to share this experience with others. Because Crowley was not only a drama queen, but also an incredible show off (he was additionally an attention hound but, generally, it was only Aziraphale’s attention he was particularly obsessed with, and as they now lived together in a lovely cottage by the sea, he got that more or less whenever he wanted). 

Now happily retired and with no orders from Hell to run around doing this or that, Crowley turned his attention to the minutiae of being a “human” in a relatively small community while still being true to his nature as a demon who wished to appear affluent and loved to show off his favorite things. In relatively recent history, this had meant driving the Bentley and basking in the general amazement over its condition (and, of course, his driving), dressing well and expensively, and owning the latest and sleekest electronics. The Bentley was still a showpiece, of course, but these days he had something even more amazing to show off:

His angel, who happened to be in love with him (he knew, because Aziraphale _said so_ , out loud, a minimum of daily; he also had it recorded on his phone, just in case). 

Since life would be boring without challenges, there were some inherent to bringing the village’s attention to how excellent Aziraphale was. To whit:  
1\. Aziraphale had spent the last several hundred years avoiding people, in the form of customers. He did this in part because he hated having his reading interrupted and in part because he was a soft touch who had watched millions of the short-lived mortals die over the millennia, and the best way to avoid losing mortal friends was to not have them at all, not that the angel would put this into words.  
2\. Aziraphale kept buying books, and was perfectly happy to become a hermit who saw only one person for months at a time.  
3\. Aziraphale, when he could be convinced to go out, wore the exact same thing every day. This was the sort of thing nosy mortals would notice and, given they were newcomers in a relatively small village, all the local noses were paying a great deal of attention to them. They were starting to mutter that Crowley wasn’t taking proper care of his angel, and that was utterly unacceptable.

Items one and two were actually shorter-term projects, successfully being dealt with through whinging and pouting when he wanted attention or to go out and about with his angel on his arm (given their different walking styles, this had taken some practice to accomplish smoothly). Aziraphale was somewhat immune to his wiles, but not completely. 

Item three, however, was a long-term project which much be approached with care. Aziraphale’s resistance to change was a central tenant of his stubborn lovable bastard personality, and therefore wasn’t to be altered. In general. One little bit of a push in the singular area of sartorial variety was, Crowley had determined, acceptable, as long as the angel was kept within his relative comfort zone of light earth tones.

The first piece of clothing Crowley purchased for Aziraphale was a pair of pajamas in a delicate cream and blue tartan. He’d considered a nightshirt as an intermediate step, but he wasn’t going to special order something that looked like it came out of the local school production of _A Christmas Carol_ , lovingly sewn by Mrs. Whoever from grandma's faded curtains. Instead, he ordered the tailored pajamas in the softest material he could find, and presented them to Aziraphale late one evening after two episodes of _The Great British Bake-off_ (one of Aziraphale's, indirectly; he didn't bother with television, but Crowley had made it out of boredom and told Aziraphale to file it with his annual review paperwork).

“Are you going to sleep, then, my dear?” Aziraphale asked as he went through the small stack of books currently residing on the bedside table. 

“Indeed I am,” Crowley said with just the right hint of mischief in his voice. “And as you don’t want me to die of hypothermia or loneliness, you’ll be joining me in the bed?”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Aziraphale was only half paying attention, but his smile was fond. Good. 

“Then you’ll be warmer and more comfortable when you change into these.” Crowley flourished the pjs like a model on _The Price is Right_ (his, he’d run off to America in the early 70’s for reasons totally unrelated to complicated feelings about a certain angel).

Aziraphale finally turned his full attention to him. “That’s very kind, darling, but-”

“They’re soft!”

“-I’m perfectfly fine in what I always-”

“No pesky buttons for me to smash my nose on!” Crowley ran a hand down the buttonless front, painted nails fluttering.

“-wear, I’ve never needed-”

“ _And_ they’re stylish. See? Tartan.”

Crowley smiled his most dashing and handsome smile, yellow eyes gleaming, even as he told his beloved angel this obvious and blatant lie. Tartan. Stylish. Aziraphale looked him over with the sort of fondness one might have for a favorite ornery old cat. “Very well,” he said with a bemused smile. 

Crowley, whose nose did indeed not get smashed into any annoying dress shirt buttons while doing his best serpent while in a human body routine that night, counted this as a strong win. He went on to add four other pairs of pajamas, each with progressively less tartan, to Aziraphale's underutilized dresser drawer over the next several weeks (this did require relocating five scrolls to the library, but Aziraphale agreed with a put-upon sigh).

Next, Crowley went shopping. Shopping, in Crowley’s world, meant getting everything tailored, which was a challenge without Aziraphale actually at his side, but the angel wasn’t ready for his tailors yet. Luckily, he knew Aziraphale’s measurements (an odd if useful miracle) and so bought a small selection of shirts, sweater vests, jumpers, ties, and yes, two bowties. He kept the color palette carefully creamy, but added in some blues and hints of green that would be perfection with his angel’s eyes. Everything he chose would look fine with The World’s Oldest Coat. 

He placed them in the wardrobe beside the outfit Aziraphale had been wearing for a literal century. 

“What is this?” Aziraphale asked the next morning, pulling out a blue jumper with a light argyle pattern with all the care and wonder of a paleontologist finding a delicate baby dinosaur foreleg (Crowley did not help plant the dinosaur bones, but he thought it was an especially hilarious joke). 

Crowley kept his voice carefully cheerful. “Looks like a jumper,” he said, even as he pulled out a sleek black jumper of his own. “The sort you can wear a collared shirt under.”

“Well, yes, but…it’s not mine.”

“It’s in your half of the wardrobe, and neither the fit nor color identify it as mine. Ergo, it must be yours.” Crowley tapped the side of his head. “Using the little gray cells, my boy,” because Aziraphale had voraciously read every Agatha Christie, while Crowley had cheated and watched the full run of the David Suchet television series (minus the final episode, because he’d been spoiled on _Curtain_ when Aziraphale read it in 1975 and he was not doing that to his own demonic heart). 

Aziraphale glowed at him for the literary reference. Crowley tried to look modest. He wasn’t very good at it. 

“So some mysterious being,” Aziraphale said, his expression serious but his mouth quirking, “has forced jumpers and shirts into my wardrobe?”

“It’s a mystery.”

“Indeed.”

“I bet this village has a Miss Marple, if you want to call in an expert.”

Aziraphale laughed. Crowley preened. “Listen, Angel, it’s ten degrees today, and while _you_ may not be bothered by the cold, I and the rest of the world are. You can’t just wander around a windy village wearing a thin shirt and waistcoat. You need to _look_ warm.”

Aziraphale eyed him. There was something a little too knowing in that bitchy gaze, but the angel clearly decided to let this one slide. “Oh, very well,” he sighed dramatically. “I wouldn’t want your Miss Marple getting suspicious about my reaction to the weather.”

“Precisely,” Crowley crowed triumphantly. 

He’d been right. The color was killer with his angel’s eyes. The angel had even been given a compliment at the post office, much to Aziraphale’s surprise and Crowley’s smug approval. 

Yes, his angel _was_ rather handsome, _wasn’t_ he? And people were noticing, now that there was a little color and life in Aziraphale’s wardrobe, and his curls were calming from the wild fluff they’d grown into as Crowley kept distracting him from going to the barber (Aziraphale was fully aware that when Crowley “finger-curled” it he was using miracles to make it fall into lovely soft coils, but he pretended not to; the petting was wonderful and Crowley was so pleased with himself for pulling the metaphorical wool over the angel’s eyes). Crawley didn't push for too much color, of course; Aziraphale must be Aziraphale, and didn’t need to be changed. Besides, the contrast between them was absolutely half the fun: Aziraphale, in his soft colors and his soft eyes and his soft hair and his soft waist and his terrifyingly bitchy expression when anyone gave them a disapproving look, and Crowley, all blacks and reds and hard corners and toothy grins when bigots found themselves at the business end of Aziraphale’s lectures (they always walked away with their heads down, as if they had been soundly put to task by their favorite grandmother; it was glorious to behold). 

More often, there were friendly, welcoming people, curious and charmed by the sweet man with the kind smiles and his cheerful if somewhat disconcerting partner in the designer glasses. Crowley glowed under the attention, holding Aziraphale’s hand, putting a hand on his hip, occasionally resting his jaw against the white gold softness of his hair. _Look,_ he smugly told the world, _look who’s mine, and I’m his._

“You’re a terrible romantic, my dear,” Aziraphale said on one of their trips back from the farmer’s market, where Crowley had only parted from his angel’s side once to go barter with his favorite florist. 

“I have no idea what you mean,” Crowley argued. He was carrying all the bags in his left hand. His right was currently interlaced with Aziraphale’s. 

The angel looked at him, blue shirt and tartan waistcoat, the tie Crowley had straightened for him that morning, and he smiled like the sun peeking from behind the clouds, the kind where rays shine like halos and the rain turns to diamonds. “Of course you don’t, my love,” the angel said, and pushed on tip toe (no need to change his comfortable, scuffed shoes) to press a kiss to Crowley’s cheek. “No idea at all.”

**Author's Note:**

> A note from the comments:  
>  1\. Regarding Crowley's recording of Aziraphale's I love you: He made this recording (these recordings, really) without Aziraphale's knowledge b/c obviously he is too cool for such sentimentality. To make sure it was Evil, he did so in an area where recording a conversation without both parties knowing is illegal.
> 
> Aziraphale knows anyway because Crowley accidentally set it as his ringtone once, but he pretends he didn't hear it for the sake of his snake's vanity.


End file.
